As discussed in my last blog. I am in a disgustingly happy place at the moment and the bastard thing won’t bugger off and let me slide back into the comfy primordial ooze of lethargy, cynicism and grumpiness that I generally wear like Batfinks shield of steel. I keep doing altruistic stuff for other people, regularly wash my bed linen and am enjoying the company of friends and colleagues. I sing out loud on my bike for fuck sake.
So rather than bore you all with the restaurants that I’ve been to, the dinner parties that I have enjoyed or the hot girl that I’m dating who incidentally cooked me an amazing dinner last night….. I thought that I would share with you a lovely little anecdote about an old man’s acrid piss.
So here it is.
‘An old man’s acrid piss: A memoir by Luke Mackay’
There was a time when I was not a chef. You could argue that I am not a chef now. But that’s another story. But at the time when I was unarguably not a chef, I got a job as a chef.
Do keep up Dears.
I got a job as a chef on a luxury yacht because I lied on my CV and in order to get to that yacht I had to travel from Antibes, all the way down the southern coast of France and down to Valencia and beyond.
And as I said goodbye to my girlfriend at Antibes station, I don’t mind telling you that I was sphincter clenchingly nervous. And sad. We had come to the South of France to work together on a yacht and find adventure and romance on the high seas. Unfortunately this was but a naive wet dream that was scuppered pretty early when prospective employers had the temerity to ask us what experience we had. The dicks.
So off I popped by myself to take up gainful employment somewhere off the coast of Spain.
My memories of this particular journey are cloudy- I can’t remember if the train went from Antibes or Nice or what time of day it was. Only that it was a sleeper train, and I had a little bunk with a curtain and a little reading lamp. Which was useful, because I can’t generally sleep on sleepers and I was engrossed in a particularly wonderful Wilbur Smith- probably about an African dynasty with witchcraft a soaring eagle and small perky breasts like billiard balls in a sock.
So I tucked myself in, pulled the curtain and settled down to pile through Wilbur at a single sitting (lying). But, by Jove the buggering little lamp didn’t work. The bulb had gone. And I hate that. Stuck in a foreign land, far away from loved ones and cooped up in a dark bunk with just me to keep me company. Rubbish. The gentle gnu-like snoring of the sweet old man in the bunk below was my only company.
But, thank the Lord, he was only asleep for an hour, before arriving at his stop. And off he shuffled to Madame Gnu and a lovely cassoulet or similar. Well that’s EXCELLENT I opined to myself, now I can read my book, all the way to Valencia. So I hopped out of my darkened, electricity free bunk and without pause for thought snuggled down into Monsieur Gnus. Light on, book open, happy days.
And then I realised that I was lying in hot, wet, old man’s acrid piss.
And that is the story of how I came to be lying in a pool of old French piss in the middle of the night, on a train in France.